Football: I Scored a Hat-Trick Against Real Madrid at 17 Chapter 21 21: Thank You, Mourinho

Iker Casillas hit the turf hard.

He lay there for half a second, eyes wide, staring at the ball tangled in the net behind him.

Then Real Madrid's captain slamd his palm into the grass in pure frustration.

He had almost gotten it.

Almost.

If the shot hadn't done sothing unexplainable at the end—if it hadn't betrayed physics in the final ters—he would've pushed it wide.

It rose like a spear, dipped like a stone, and then, right as it reached the mouth of the goal, the arc flattened out in a way that made Casillas' hand feel late by an eternity.

A "god shot."

The kind that goalkeepers simply weren't ant to save.

And for so reason… it felt familiar.

On the ground near the top of the box, Sami Khedira stared blankly, his face stiff with shock.

Before today, he had never truly believed Shane Carter would pull the trigger from outside the area.

Because until this mont, everyone's scouting report said the sa thing:

Carter's threat ca from passing.

He didn't shoot.

He didn't want to shoot.

Even the one goal he'd scored ca from inside the six-yard box—more of a calm push into an empty net than anything else.

So when Shane chopped the ball sideways…

Khedira thought he was about to see a pass.

Instead, he saw an execution.

The speed.

The timing.

The angle.

Everything was almost perfect.

This wasn't luck.

This wasn't a fluke.

Behind Khedira, the two Real Madrid fullbacks stood frozen, eyes wide, mouths half-open.

They had tightened onto Falcao because they were sure the ball was going there.

And then…

They watched it hit their net.

...

In the away section, the Real Madrid fans who had been singing minutes earlier suddenly went rigid.

Several of them literally rubbed their eyes, as if the scene in front of them had to be a hallucination.

From kickoff until now, Madrid had been dominating.

They had been waiting patiently for the inevitable goal.

And yes…

The goal had arrived.

Just not for them.

At that mont, the Calderón finally understood what it had just witnessed.

"Suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!!"

The roar was monstrous.

It punched upward like a shockwave and seed to tear through the roof of the stadium.

In the comntary booth, the comntators snapped out of their trance.

"Goooooooooooooal!!! IT'S IN! IT'S IN! SHANE CARTER WITH A LONG-RANGE STRIKE!"

"Oh! Unbelievable—absolutely unbelievable!"

"Atlético Madrid score! Their first counter-attack of the match, their first real attack, their first shot—and it is a screar! A world-class strike from roughly twenty-nine ters! A thunderbolt!"

"Brilliant! Brilliant! BRILLIANT! CARTER!! He leaves Casillas helpless!"

As the comntators scread, the stands began to shake.

The ho fans had completely lost their minds.

Everyone was on their feet—arms whipping, feet stamping.

The cara platforms trembled so violently the broadcast footage itself visibly shook.

In the press box, Tomás Roncero—AS's most notorious Real Madrid mouthpiece—sat there with his jaw hanging open.

He had just tweeted:

"Atlético have survived five minutes. How many more five-minute blocks can they last?"

And then Atlético scored.

Not just scored.

They scored with an unsolvable, humiliating long-range worldie.

Roncero felt his scalp go numb.

He was half a clown, but he was also half an expert.

He understood exactly what it ant.

A midfielder with elite dribbling and elite passing was already a nightmare.

But if that midfielder also had a genuine long-range cannon?

He beca close to impossible to defend.

Under Roncero's tweet, the Real Madrid fans had vanished.

They didn't have the face to stay.

And in their place ca Atlético supporters in a flood.

"Why don't you guess when Madrid will concede next?"

"HAHAHAHA—CARTER! CARTER! CARTER!"

"How long until this tweet gets deleted?"

"Five minutes, max"

"I already screenshotted it, buddy"

And then—fast.

Snap.

Roncero opened Twitter.

Tap.

Delete.

Done.

He sat back, forcing his expression into sothing cold.

He glanced toward a cluster of foreign reporters in the press area—so of them cheering like kids—and clicked his tongue.

It was just one goal.

Real Madrid had been unstoppable this season.

Conceding once was not going to break them.

Not even close.

...

On the touchline, Sione raised both arms and spun in a circle like a madman.

He clenched his fists, punching the air over and over, his face twisting with pure joy.

He had been waiting for this exact mont.

He had known Shane's long-range shot was real.

And now…

They had detonated it against Real Madrid.

Right in Mourinho's face.

It worked.

Germán Burgos sprinted out and nearly tackled Sione in celebration, the two n colliding in a violent hug.

"He's another scoring outlet now!" Sione shouted, grinning.

A midfielder who could pass, carry, and shoot from distance…

Was infinitely harder to cage.

Then Sione saw it.

His players were sprinting together toward the Real Madrid bench.

The Argentine's grin widened.

He sat back down and winked at his staff.

"Showti, boys."

...

"Ready?"

"Go, go, go—follow!"

Atlético players sward toward the Real Madrid technical area.

Everyone knew what was happening.

Atlético was about to do sothing.

On the Real Madrid bench, several staff mbers stood up imdiately, pointing and yelling warnings.

But Atlético ignored them completely.

They arrived in front of Mourinho's technical area.

Gabi and Falcao positioned themselves like goalposts.

Mario Suárez curled his body down on the grass.

Shane gently tapped him with his foot.

Mario rolled across the ground like a ball being pushed into a net.

And the Atlético players erupted in celebration.

A full-on goal pantomi—a silent little theatre production perford right in front of Real Madrid.

But it still wasn't over.

From the bench, Tiago walked over holding sothing in his hands.

He handed it to Shane.

Shane unfolded it amid his teammates, and the Arican comntator paused mid-sentence.

"…Is that a banner?"

A ceremonial banner.

Yes.

A very old-school, gladiatorial kind of statent.

Shane held it up and stepped closer, placing it directly in front of Mourinho.

Written in Spanish:

To Mourinho:

Thank you for pointing out my weakness.

—Shane Carter

The Real Madrid staff and substitutes instantly exploded with rage.

They pointed at Shane, screaming.

"Show so respect, you bastard!"

"Do you even understand what you're doing?!"

"Get out! Get out of here!"

They tried to surge forward.

But they couldn't reach him.

The Atlético players surrounded Shane like bodyguards, boxing him in and shielding him from any retaliation.

Mourinho's face darkened into sothing almost inhuman.

He hadn't expected a response like this.

He lifted his chin, refusing to look at the banner.

But that didn't matter.

A banner was ant to be seen by the recipient.

Shane clicked his tongue.

This Portuguese man had no manners at all.

Soone brought you a banner and you can't even take it?

So Shane dropped it right at Mourinho's feet.

Then he turned and walked away.

Mourinho stared at Shane's back.

The more he stared, the angrier he beca.

He swung his leg and kicked the banner away like trash.

Back on the broadcast, the comntator kept his voice as level as possible, but the amusent kept leaking through the cracks.

"Before the match, Mourinho used his press conference to attack Shane Carter. Shane didn't respond through the dia. Who could have imagined… his response would co during the match, directly in Mourinho's face."

"Giving Mourinho a ceremonial banner… I have to say, that might be the most creative celebration I have ever seen."

"But it will likely co with consequences—yes, the referee has already booked Shane Carter with a yellow card."

Online, Arican fans were howling.

"He was waiting for Mourinho with the banner LMAO"

"Bro just accept the gift"

"What does it say?"

"It says 'Thanks for pointing out my weakness'"

"That is disgusting. That is criminal. That is a war cri"

"Mourinho said he can't score… so he scores and gifts him a banner"

"Elite cultural export"

Within minutes, Shane's celebration was trending harder than the goal itself.

And screenshots of Mourinho's face—black with fury—instantly turned into s.

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